Deep within a secluded forest, away from the warm touch of sunlight, a group of goblins had found temporary refuge. The place was hidden by dense shrubs and thorny bushes, nestled against a rocky hill, its craggy face covered in shadows. The goblins, crouched low and hunched over, gorged themselves on the spoils they had taken from the nearby peasant village.

Their small, gangly frames moved with disturbing speed and agility. Their skin was a sickly shade of greenish, with leathery textures that seemed to glisten under the faint patches of light that filtered through the canopy. The goblins bore twisted, impish faces, with wide, bat-like ears and large, protruding eyes that darted about warily, even while they ate. Their pointed teeth, yellowed and crooked, tore savagely at the stolen food, pieces of bread, and dried meats scattered about on the dirt floor.

The larger goblins dominated the scene, greedily hoarding the best portions of food. They snarled and growled at their smaller counterparts, who skulked around the edges, waiting for leftovers. When the smaller goblins dared to creep forward for a piece, they were swiftly shoved back or struck with sharp claws. These smaller creatures, though weaker, were fast and cunning. Their attempts to steal from the bigger goblins often led to scuffles, with shrill screeches echoing through the forest as they fought over the meager remnants.

Their ragged clothing barely clung to their misshapen bodies, fragments of cloth and fur tied haphazardly together. Despite this, their movements were erratic, and their speed was alarming. They constantly watched each other, always on edge, as though expecting an attack not just from the outside but from within their own kind.

One of the larger goblins, its head grotesquely large for its body, sat atop a rock with a moldy loaf of bread in hand, snarling at the others, as if daring anyone to challenge it for its share. The pecking order was clear—might ruled here, and those too small or too weak to fight were left with nothing.

They continued their aggressive feast, unaware that they were being tracked.

Not far from the goblins' location, hidden behind a dense group of shrubs and plants, two figures hunched over, carefully observing the goblin group, who remained oblivious to their presence. Sir Francis knelt at the front, his keen eyes locked on the goblins as they squabbled over their stolen food. Behind him, the guardsman who had accompanied him waited in silence, his breath steady but tense.

Sir Francis's face was set in a stern expression. He studied the chaotic scene in front of him, noting the disorganized and careless behavior of the goblins. After a few more moments of observation, he turned back to the guardsman, his voice low but firm.

"There are roughly twenty of them," he began, his tone measured. "I don't see any of them scouting or keeping guard." His gaze briefly returned to the goblins before continuing. "But don't let your guard down. These creatures are more dangerous than they appear to be."

The guardsman gave an understanding nod, readying his weapon. He knew Sir Francis well enough to realize that retreat was never an option in a situation like this. Francis had the combat experience and confidence to know that a decisive strike would give them the upper hand. They were outnumbered, but the goblins' disorganization could be used to their advantage.

Sir Francis reached behind his back, gripping the hilt of a short sword that was strapped behind his waist, its sheath secured by a simple leather belt. The weapon, though shorter than a standard knight's longsword, was crafted with precision. Its sleek, double-edged blade gleamed faintly in the dim forest light. The cross guard was elegantly curved, providing balance, while the black leather-wrapped handle gave Sir Francis a firm grip. It was a weapon designed for agility and quick strikes, perfect for dealing with the fast and erratic movements of goblins.

In all his experience fighting goblins, Sir Francis knew that a longer sword would be a hindrance. Goblins were swift, erratic creatures that favored close-quarters combat. They would swarm their opponent with wild, headlong rushes, giving little time to adjust with larger weapons. The short sword allowed Sir Francis to stay light on his feet, adjusting his stance and composure as needed to counter their reckless charges. He would use their own frenzied style against them, ready to exploit any gaps in their wild strikes.

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He glanced over his shoulder at the guardsman behind him, who wielded a standard knight's longsword. The man gave a small nod of understanding, knowing his role was to cover Sir Francis if things got out of hand. While Sir Francis focused on attacking the main group, the guardsman would be his backup, ensuring no stragglers could take them by surprise.

Sir Francis tightened his grip on the hilt, feeling the familiar weight of the sword as he prepared for the fight ahead. He had faced goblins many times before—this group of dweller goblins, barely armed and lacking any tactical sense, wouldn't stand a chance.

...

A calm breeze passed, rustling the leaves gently as the goblins continued devouring their stolen spoils. They squabbled amongst themselves, oblivious to the creeping danger in the shadows. Then, in an instant, a shadowy figure moved through the clearing—fast, silent, lethal.

Before the goblins even realized it, one head, then two, then three, were severed from their bodies. The dull thuds of lifeless goblin corpses hitting the ground followed swiftly after the gleaming blade that cut through the air with precision.

The shadowy figure adjusted its stance, its movements fluid and deliberate. Without hesitation, it grabbed several loose items from the ground and, with a swift motion, flung them into the air toward several group of goblins. The goblins, their dull, beady eyes following the objects, were momentarily distracted. Their attention fractured as they stared at the sudden flurry of movement above them, leaving the entire group vulnerable and unaware of the danger rapidly approaching.

And then, from behind the falling debris, a flash of steel emerged. Sir Francis broke from the shadow, his blade a blur of deadly intent. In one swift motion, he struck down a goblin, its body crumpling beneath his blade as the others scrambled in confusion.

Without hesitation, Sir Francis pushed ahead, launching himself forward with calculated speed. The goblin before him froze, its wide, beady eyes filled with terror. Time seemed to slow, the goblin too shocked to react as Sir Francis closed the distance in a heartbeat.

With a single, decisive stroke, the goblin's head was severed from its body, the blade moving so quickly the creature had no time to comprehend its fate.

With the commotion intensifying, the rest of the goblins quickly realized they were under attack. Some began screaming, their shrill cries mixing fury and panic. They rushed toward Sir Francis, though their charge was disorganized. A few remained frozen, their dull eyes wide with confusion, while others frantically searched for makeshift weapons—anything to defend themselves. The larger group further back, still chewing on stolen food, sluggishly joined the fray, but their movements were clumsy, weighed down by their feast.

Sir Francis, ever composed, allowed a faint grin to tug at the corner of his lips. The thrill of battle energized him. He planted one foot firmly into the ground, lowering his body in a stance that held both balance and precision. His hand gripped the hilt of his short sword, the blade gleaming as he aimed it forward, ready to strike.

Without hesitation, he shot forward, launching himself at the charging goblins. To an untrained eye, their wild rush seemed fearsome, but to Sir Francis, they were nothing more than disorganized chaos. Their erratic movements left openings—gaps he could exploit. With calculated swiftness, he weaved through them, evading strikes with ease, his blade slashing in clean, decisive arcs as he cut down the goblins nearest to him.

...

Back at the ransacked village, several guardsmen were busy clearing broken items, while others helped the local peasants repair their damaged homes. Among the villagers, Sylvia moved gracefully, tending to the injured, her hands glowing faintly with healing magic as she mended their wounds. Sir William sat atop his horse, his sharp gaze overseeing the efforts, ensuring the village was being restored.

One of the guardsmen approached Sir William, saluting before speaking. "We've located Sir Francis' trail. He seems to have followed the goblins into the forest just behind the village."

Sir William nodded thoughtfully. "Leave some men here to secure the perimeter and fortify defenses. The rest will follow me to find Sir Francis."

Without wasting another moment, Sir William spurred his horse forward, leading a group of guardsmen along the trail that snaked into the dense forest. His expression was tight with concern, though he tried to mask it. The trail led them toward a hill, thick with bushes and scrub. As they crested the hill, Sir William's eyes widened in shock.

Lifeless goblin bodies lay strewn across the ground, piled one on top of the other. Blood and dirt mingled in a grim display of combat. Sir William urged his horse forward, scanning the area for any sign of Sir Francis. Then, from behind a nearby bush, Sir Francis emerged, casually adjusting his sword belt with a playful glint in his eye.

"You're late," he quipped, his tone teasing as he rested a hand on his waist.